Bloody Bastogne

by Len Levinson

  Balck was dumbfounded, and didn’t know what to say.

  “Can you hear me, Balck?”

  “Yes, my Fuehrer. This is most welcome news!”

  “I have saved the Reich once more,” Hitler said. “Destiny has smiled upon me and tipped the scales in my favor. The direction of this war has changed dramatically in only one day. Victory is within my grasp. I’ll see you in Paris by the first of the year, Balck. Take heart!”

  “Yes, my Fuehrer, I certainly shall. Yes, indeed.”

  “That is all for now, Balck. You may return to bed with the knowledge that an entirely new era will dawn tomorrow. That is all. Sieg Heil!”

  “Heil Hitler!” shouted Balck.

  The phone went dead in Balck’s ear. He returned it to its cradle and stared at the wall in front of him, trying to make sense of what his Fuehrer had told him. It was all so preposterous. Could it be true?

  Chapter Nine

  It was two o’clock in the morning somewhere east of Bastogne, and Mahoney trudged through a forest, wishing the stars were out so he could take a bearing and be sure he was heading in the right direction.

  Mahoney had been having bad times ever since he left the gasoline dump. The temperature had dropped to twenty-two degrees; he was hungry, and he had a hangover. His leg was bothering him again, and he stank of gasoline.

  At midnight he’d decided to get some sleep the way they had taught him in survival school at Fort Benning, Georgia. They’d said if you dug a little hollow in the snow, got into it, and covered yourself with snow, you would stay warm. Mahoney tried it, and it was like lying down inside a refrigerator with the cooling system turned all the way up. He’d stayed that way for a while waiting for the warmth to come, but it never did. He just kept getting colder and colder. Finally he climbed out of the hole, cursing the instructors at survival school at Fort Benning.

  He decided the best way to stay warm was to keep moving. He didn’t dare light a fire because it could be seen at night, and he didn’t know if any Germans were around. Tomorrow he might be able to find a little cave or glen where he could make a fire and maybe cook a rabbit—although he had no idea of how to catch a rabbit.

  He trudged through the snow, burping because his stomach had nothing in it but cold air. He tried not to think that he might get lost and die of starvation or exposure in the woods. He continued repeating to himself that he’d get back to the American lines somehow, although he didn’t know where the American lines were.

  He thought he’d been in the woods for centuries, but when he looked at his two watches, he found out that only a half hour had elapsed since the last time he’d checked them. Assailed by rage and frustration, he dropped to his knees on the snow and fought to prevent himself from screaming. I can’t take much more of this, he thought.

  Mahoney clasped his hands together, closed his eyes, and prayed. He always turned to prayer in his most difficult situations because he’d been educated in Catholic schools in New York City and it was a reflex action to extreme hardship. “Oh Lord,” he whispered, “if you get me out of this one, I’ll give all my money to the church and I won’t fuck girls anymore. I’ll stop drinking, and I’ll stop taking your name in vain. I also won’t shoot any more craps.”

  Mahoney opened his eyes and saw a glimmer of light in the distance through the trees. Blinking, he looked again, and sure enough, something was there. Springing to his feet, he moved quickly through the snow, smashing branches out of his way, his eyes fixed on the light.

  It became more distinct, and he thought it was a fire or a lantern far away. He continued to make his way through the woods, wondering what it was, and hoping that it wasn’t a campfire surrounded by Germans.

  Finally he came to the edge of the woods and looked down at a snow covered plain. A farmhouse sat on the plain, and the light was in one of the windows. Mahoney raised his binoculars and scanned the landscape. In the darkness, he could see no German vehicles or other signs of the Germans in the vicinity of the farmhouse, although there could be a few tanks parked on the side that he couldn’t see.

  He was tempted to sneak down to the farmhouse and take a look, but that wouldn’t be prudent if there really were German vehicles parked on the other side. He’d have to take a long, circuitous route through the woods so he could see if anything was hidden on the blind side of the house. He groaned because he didn’t feel up to it. He was tired and weak from loss of blood and lack of food, not to mention the brandy hangover. But he had to check out the other side of the house. Then, if Germans were there, he’d have to disappear into the woods again and continue heading in the direction he thought was east. If the farmhouse appeared to be free of Germans, he could sneak down and steal some food.

  He moved through the woods to a position where he could see the blind side of the farmhouse. The vision of fat sausages hanging from the rafters of the farmhouse kept him going. There might even be some cheese and some freshly baked bread lying around.

  Mahoney stomped around trees and bushes, thinking of fabulous meals. Maybe they had fresh eggs and coffee. Perhaps they’d butchered a pig lately and had some nice pork chops. Perhaps the farmer was a connoisseur of fine wine— although Mahoney had promised God he’d never drink again.

  Finally he worked his way through the woods to a position where he could see the side of the farmhouse that had previously been hidden. He raised his binoculars and saw a barn on that side of the house, but no vehicles of any kind.

  Mahoney smiled. Now he could go down and check the place out. He opened the bolt of his M-1 to make sure there was a round in the chamber because there might be some Germans there anyway. Scooping up some snow, he stuffed it into his mouth to relieve his thirst, and came out of the woods.

  The field inclined gently downward to the farmhouse and barn. Mahoney moved along cautiously, his eyes scanning back and forth for signs of trouble, with one finger on the trigger of his M-1. It would be wonderful if food were down there along with a friendly farmer who’d let him sleep in the barn, but if there was trouble, Mahoney would be ready for it.

  He approached the barn, stepping cautiously through the snow. He smelled animal manure and heard the rustle of hooves inside the barn. Although he was being careful and quiet, the animals with their incredible ears had heard him.

  Then, suddenly, the sound of barking shattered the stillness. A brown and white dog that looked mostly collie rounded a corner and charged Mahoney, baring its fangs and drooling all over the snow.

  Mahoney raised his rifle and prepared to shoot the dog if it made a move to bite him, but the dog kept its distance, barking and howling, trying to appear fearsome. Mahoney knew he was in trouble. He’d been discovered, and he couldn’t run away because he’d be too easy to spot on the vast snow covered field.

  “Sssshhhh,” he said to the dog, “calm down you fucking bastard.”

  The dog kept barking and hopping around. Evidently it had been drilled into his head that his function on Earth was to sound the alarm if a stranger ever showed up on the farm.

  The front door of the house opened, and a woman stepped onto the porch. She wore long skirts and a long wool coat, with a wool stocking cap on her head. “Do you speak French?” she called out to Mahoney in French.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied in that language.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m awfully hungry, ma’am. I’d just like a little something to eat and then I’ll be on my way.”

  The woman stepped down from the porch and walked toward him. Mahoney made a motion to meet her halfway, but the dog lunged at him.

  “Get back, Ferdinand!” the woman shouted. “Come here!”

  The dog laid back his ears, dropped his tail between his legs, and whined as he walked toward the woman. Mahoney didn’t know whether to sling his rifle and show peaceful intentions or to keep it ready just in case. He decided to keep it ready just in case.

  The woman came closer and stopped. She was in her late thirties or e
arly forties with attractive features and a large bosom. Her hair beneath the stocking cap was medium blonde. She wrinkled her forehead and looked Mahoney over.

  “Are you a deserter?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am,” Mahoney replied. “I don’t know if you know it or not, but the Germans have attacked Belgium. I’ve been cut off from my unit, and I’m trying to get to Bastogne.”

  She nodded. “Some German planes passed overhead yesterday, and we’ve heard bombardments in the distance. We thought something like that had happened.”

  “We?” Mahoney asked.

  “My daughter and I.” The woman turned around. “Cecile— it’s all right!”

  Mahoney looked at the farmhouse and noticed for the first time a female with a rifle in an upstairs window. The woman with the stocking cap faced him again. “My daughter and I have to be careful because sometimes soldiers don’t know how to behave around women. But you appear to be a decent fellow. Come into the kitchen, and we’ll get you some breakfast.”

  Mahoney slung his rifle. “That would be awfully nice of you, ma’am.”

  She smiled for the first time. “My name is Suzanne.”

  “I’m Mahoney.”

  They walked together toward the house, and Mahoney’s mouth watered at the thought of the food.

  “You’re limping,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

  “I have a wound in my leg, but it’s been stitched up. I’ll have to take the stitches out in another day or two.”

  “My husband is a doctor,” the woman said. “He’s away, but I know how to take out stitches.”

  “Well, they were just put in yesterday.”

  “It’s too soon then. I’ll have a look to make sure the wound’s all right.”

  “Where’s your husband?”

  “He’s in the Army. And my son too.”

  They entered the farmhouse, and Mahoney found himself in a kitchen with a kerosene lamp burning on the table. A blonde girl of eighteen, the one who must have been in the window upstairs, was feeding wood into an ornate cast iron cooking stove. She was slim with a cute, upturned nose and her hair combed back into a bun.

  “Cecile,” said the woman, “this is Mahoney, an American soldier.”

  The girl smiled. “Hello, Mahoney.”

  “Hi.”

  Her skin was creamy white, and Mahoney thought she was a living doll. Her mother took off her stocking cap and shook out her wavy hair. She was bigger than her daughter, the type often described as a handsome woman. In the light of the kerosene lamp, they could have passed as sisters.

  Mahoney began to have carnal thoughts and closed his eyes because he recalled his promise to God a few hours ago that if he were saved, he wouldn’t fuck women anymore. Please God, he prayed silently, please stop me from trying to get into the pants of these nice people here.

  “Are you all right?” Suzanne asked.

  Mahoney opened his eyes and smiled beatifically. “I was just making a little prayer, thanking the Lord for bringing me here, because I was afraid I would freeze to death or starve in the woods.”

  “You poor man,” Suzanne said, pulling out a chair. “Cecile—make some coffee!”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Mahoney sat down and watched the women bustle through the kitchen. From cupboards, they took eggs, cheese, and sausages, and Mahoney recalled dreaming of these delicacies only a short while ago. It just goes to show you, Mahoney thought, that if you have faith in the Lord, He will always provide for you.

  The women cooked the food and made coffee. The kitchen filled with the most delicious aromas Mahoney had ever smelled in his life. He offered the women cigarettes, but they both said they didn’t smoke. Lighting one for himself, he puffed it contentedly.

  Suzanne poured some hot water into a wash basin. “Come clean your hands,” she said. “You’ll have to take a bath after breakfast because you smell terrible.”

  Mahoney washed his hands in the basin and looked at the mirror on the wall, horrified by what he saw. He was filthy and scruffy and looked completely disreputable. Drying his hands on the towel, he could understand now why the women had been afraid of him at first. He looked worse than an escaped convict. He sat at the table, and the women placed platters of food in front of him.

  “Help yourself,” Suzanne said. “Don’t wait for us.”

  Mahoney attacked the food, struggling heroically to keep himself under control. He shoveled eggs and sausages into his mouth, washed them down with hot coffee, and then gobbled the oven baked bread.

  Sitting to his right, Suzanne smiled benevolently. “It’s so nice to see a man with a good appetite,” she said.

  Mahoney’s stomach filled, and he was able to behave with more decorum. He sat erect and used his knife and fork in the proper manner. He was even able to engage in a friendly discussion with the women, telling them where he was from and a few things about his life. In turn, he learned about them. Ordinarily they lived in Brussels, where Suzanne’s husband had his practice, and they came to the farm in the summer for vacations. When food became scarce in the city, and the men of the household had to enter the army, it was decided that the women should move permanently to the farm, where they’d be certain of getting enough food to eat. They’d been here for several months and both were getting bored. Cecile missed her ballet classes, and Suzanne missed her friends.

  “I’ve lost all the romantic notions I used to have about the country,” Suzanne said wearily. “It’s so dull out here. If you’ve seen one tree, you’ve seen them all.”

  When Mahoney’s stomach was full, he leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. Suzanne and Cecile cleared off the table and did the dishes. Mahoney’s eyes drooped sleepily, and he had a half hard-on from watching the women. Suzanne was buxom with an ample rear end and strong legs, whereas Cecile was like a fairy princess. If he had to choose between them in a whorehouse, he’d have to stop and really give it some thought.

  “I think I’m falling asleep,” Mahoney said. “Do you think it would be all right if I laid down in the barn?”

  “The barn?” Suzanne said. “Don’t be preposterous. We don’t make our guests sleep in the barn. You shall sleep in the house here, but first you’ve got to take a bath.” She looked at Cecile. “Go to the barn, and take care of your chores now, while I heat up some water for Sergeant Mahoney.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Cecile put on her coat, cast Mahoney a sidelong glance, and left the kitchen. Suzanne pumped the handle in the sink and drew some water, which she transferred to a big pot on the stove.

  “You’ll have to take your bath here in the kitchen,” she said, “because it’s the warmest room in the house. My daughter and I will wash your clothes, because they’re absolutely filthy, and I’ll get you some of my husband’s things to wear. I also have one of his razors here, so you can shave.”

  She brought a big aluminum tub into the kitchen and set it on the floor. Then she ladled hot water from the stove to the tub.

  “That looks like hard work,” Mahoney said. “I can help you.”

  “Sit still. You’ll only get in the way.”

  Finally, everything was ready. Suzanne brought Mahoney the razor and one of her husband’s bathrobes.

  “I’ll leave you now,” she said, “and go to help Cecile in the barn.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Mahoney replied.

  Suzanne put on her coat and hat and left the kitchen.

  ~*~

  An hour later Mahoney sat at the kitchen table smoking a cigarette. He was shaved and bathed, and wore a thick robe. He’d emptied the filthy water into the sink and tossed a few more sticks of wood into the stove. He felt cozy and good, and soon he’d go to sleep.

  “Hello!” Suzanne said from outside. “Are you finished?”

  “Come on in!” Mahoney replied.

  Suzanne and Cecile entered the kitchen, bringing cold air in with them. They both looked at him rather peculiarly, and Cecile said, “He looks nice
without all the dirt and the growth of beard.”

  “Cecile!” said her mother.

  Cecile blushed and took off her coat.

  “Clean up the kitchen,” Suzanne said, “while I show Mahoney to his bedroom and look at his wound.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Suzanne led Mahoney out of the kitchen and through a large living room with a stone fireplace and antlers hanging above it. A fire burned in the pit and heat radiated from the stone throughout the rest of the house. They climbed a flight of stairs, with Suzanne still leading the way and Mahoney’s eyes level with her rear end. He wanted to reach up her dress and have a squeeze, but he knew that one shouldn’t repay kindness with sneak attacks, and besides, he’d sworn that he wouldn’t do that sort of thing to women anymore.

  They entered a bedroom with flowers on the wallpaper. Mahoney looked out the window and could see snow falling again. On the dresser next to the chair were bandages, bottles of medicine, and medical implements.

  “Sit down,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mahoney sat on the chair. Suzanne fiddled with the instruments on the dresser. She took a pair of surgical scissors and kneeled in front of Mahoney.

  “Where is it?” she asked.

  Mahoney pulled the bathrobe to the side and showed her the stitched gash. She bent forward and looked at it, probing gingerly with her fingers. “Does it hurt?”

  “A little.”

  “I think it’s too early to take these stitches out.”

  “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

  He looked down at her as she examined the wound, wiping away bits of gunk with a piece of gauze, and he felt all the energy in his body drifting down and filling up his dork, which rumbled about under the bathrobe. He became embarrassed because he knew she couldn’t help but see it rising to life. She rested the palm of her hand on his hairy leg, and that made him hornier. Oh Lord, he thought, please don’t let me grab this poor woman.